


Eros Shook My Mind

by Shatterpath



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-10
Updated: 2002-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shatterpath/pseuds/Shatterpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Sappho poem fragment: </p>
<p>       Eros shook my<br/>mind like a mountain wind falling on oak trees</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eros Shook My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2007 Sappho Fragments ficathon at Shatterstorm.net. My recipient is Ardvari, who fortunately allowed me to write Sara's mysterious Daddy figure, who later is revealed to be my beloved Dace.
> 
> Requester: Ardvari  
> Fandom & Pairing: CSI, Sara/Lady Heather  
> Prompts: leather & lace  
> Squicks: no Grissom bashing  
> Rating: Any  
> Spoilers: Any

++ Sara ++

 

(7-10-02)

 

"You are punctual. That is something."

 

Shaken by this event, twisted into nervous knots by the ravings of my own dark mind, I tremble beneath the calm, liquid weight of that soft voice. Like the weight of metric tons of seawater pressing down onto a vulnerable diver, I can only stare at the ripples of color in my blurred eyes and hope for mercy.

 

Quiet footfalls stalk me as I tremble. This is the dichotomy of being prey. This so very specific fear runs liquid through my mind and between my legs. When Daddy told me that I would be doing this, it wasn't a request, I'd only gaped in astonishment. Not only is this feline woman a stranger I've never actually met, but she has ties to the two halves of my life.

 

Truth is, I'm terrified.

 

Within these well-appointed walls, I can almost feel the familiar presence of Grissom… and Catherine, and even faint traces of Jim. Yet even those ghostly afterimages cannot break the training, the rough and loving touch of my Daddy etched permanently into my skin and soul.

 

The weight of my beloved silver collar is heavy around my neck. Even now, I can remember the heat of the welding torch as it permanently closed the heavy ring that binds the two ends of the fine chainmail length together.

 

A flashfire of pain on my shoulder makes me jump in surprise, the snap of sound almost an afterthought. My wandering attention has been noted by my new Mistress and she has reined me back in. I am reassured by this, settling like a well trained horse in her constricting tack and harness.

 

"Better, Basker," Lady Heather purrs out my play name and I keep my pleasure hidden as I have been trained to do. "I have looked forward to this meeting for some time. You are an enigma to so many, pretty girl, hmm?" The teasing tone is dangerous, silky and warm like satin sheets against sex-languorous skin.

 

As always in this field of extreme sexualities, I am torn between pleasure and fear. While I am soothed by this stranger's intoxicating voice, I am also afraid. This is the first time that Daddy has handed me off to a complete stranger for training and I am off kilter. Oh, sure we talked it out back to front, but the reality is still stark and dangerous.

 

Luckily, there are multiple people I trust implicitly that hold this woman in the same regard.

 

A feather touch at my shoulder, tracing the welt there, makes me shake in visceral reaction. It not her skin, but the caress of thin, supple leather, and the trembling takes on a new timbre.

 

"Close your eyes."

 

There is no thought to disobey and something silky wraps around my head, knotted comfortably tight at the back of my head. So, I will not be allowed to even see her then.

 

++ Lady Heather ++

 

Through the eyes of her friends and loved ones, I had an idea of what she would be like. But, as with any photograph, even one created only with words, the reality is so much better. I watched her enter my domain from a favored vantage point that renders me invisible and in control. Like a skittish animal, afraid but so very well trained, she stood in the main hall for a moment and looked about. Then she remembered the instructions I had agreed upon with her Master and walked to the door left ajar.

 

The heavy, intricate ivory lace is delicious contrast to the greyhound lines of her, emphasizing her slender figure and flat girl muscles. I'm silently impressed at her choice to keep her back to the open door, leaving her so very vulnerable.

 

Sara is out of my normal sphere of influence in so very many ways. The vast majority of my clientele are heterosexual couples or the weekend perverts. That percentage is even higher on the burgeoning phone lines. To have the opportunity to take on this particular tidbit was an offer that I could not pass up. Her Master is a powerful figure in many circles, not the least of which is the mutual connections to the graveyard CSIs here in the City of Sin.

 

She is silent and obedient as I touch her back, bind her eyes. Right now, neither of us needs the distracting intimacy of eye contact. Now I can step around and take stock of features obscured by the length of black silk. An angular chin, square-ish face, serious mouth, fine, luxurious dark hair; she is a striking creature.

 

"Your wrists," I instruct quietly and she obeys instantly, hands raised like a supplicant. To draw out her blinded anticipation, I step away to examine what I have to work with. Good, at least the house girls replaced everything as it should be. With Sara's relatively small wrists and long, narrow hands, I go for a set of restraints I would normally pass over. Heavy, wide nylon lined in thick faux fur with sturdy Velcro closures will suit her bone structure well.

 

In practiced silence, I bind this slave's wrists and hook them to the heavy chain to draw her up onto her toes. Her slender femininity is stark contrast to the men that usually dangle here in my place of work, but I am relishing the change. Curious, I trail a hand over her curves, feel the heat bleeding through the lacy dress, her breath catching as my fingers trail beneath the material against her tense thigh.

 

Not a sound from her yet, as I have not asked it of her. I could demand a slavish 'yes Mistress' as the punctuation to my every word, but there is something poetic about this woman's quiet. But now is the time to hear her voice and I once again put the riding crop in my hand, trailing it teasingly over the tense lines of her back.

 

"What is your safe word?"

 

There is a pause, as though she has to think about what I've asked. A sharp prod against her vertebrae loosens her tongue. Too quiet to be heard, the strange words are whispered, but I am uncertain that I have it. The stiff, whippy length of the crop across her hip makes Sara jump.

 

"Speak up, girl!"

 

The annoyance in my tone makes her twitch and swallow hard. "DUI and Tamales, Mistress."

 

Curious, I repeat the words back to her, before offering my own. "Molasses and Zoey."

 

Softly, but clearly, Sara echoes me, her voice rich and expressive. Excellent. At the very least, I will enjoy the pleasure of her tones.

 

++ Sara ++

 

There was a time, not so long ago, that I defined myself on my perceived strength of sheer will. Defined myself by accomplishments, by tenacity, by raw intellect.

 

But part of me remained withered in the face of that.

 

My Daddy's gentle terrorizing of those stagnant places has taught me much. Like rain to the desert, the softer places have blossomed in the torrent of rough love like a flood of water. My very psyche has been redefined as the desert sand after a storm.

 

Now is not the time to wander as a hard fist winds into my trailing hair, gently pulling my head back between my outstretched arms. Throat exposed, I feel the familiar and so very specific fear of this kind of play. There is a scrape of sound and firm flesh presses into my belly. Even as I realize that Lady Heather has propped her foot on something and I can feel her thigh on my abdomen, there is a swish of sound like wind in trees, pain flaring hot and grounding along my nerves.

 

Groaning softly, I remain still, clinging to the chain as my anchor. Her hand splays over my navel, one finger tickling the little life-scar. The sensuous touch is stark contrast to the blaze of agony along my stretched back as the crop strikes again.

 

She is careful, attuned to me, stranger that I am. Doling out pain and pleasure in deliberate measurements. Once we understand one another through the strange intimacy of this act, Lady Heather moves away and quickly strips me naked. Oddly, I think that I am more comfortable now, in this more familiar territory.

 

The next blow takes me off guard, my body off balance without hers to anchor me, and I cry out for real this time, mind awhirl with the stimulation.

 

"Good girl," she praises again and there are additional sounds, her leather-gloved fingers gentle on my jaw. "Water?"

 

So often the gift of water to the supplicant, the tortured. This simple gift almost religious in its complexity. The giving of the life-sustaining liquid from the torturer in place of ordinary kindness. I take the offer for what it is, sucking eagerly at the plastic tip of some kind of sports bottle, hearing the hiss of air replacing the cooling water I take in. "Thank you, Mistress," I tell her quite clearly, now ready for the next stage of her homage to my surrender.

 

++ Heather ++

 

It is a supremely bizarre sensation, this sudden want to kiss that soft, yielding mouth. I don't do that! Ever!

 

The easy seductiveness of this woman is startling. Truly, she is as close to perfection in this role as any Dominant could want. The lines of wants and gender assignment are blurring and I curse her Daddy for leaving me such a powerful enigma. That secretive smile, the blue eyes twinkling, now makes perfect sense.

 

More perversely amused than annoyed, I double check that Sara is still breathing easily after her long drink and move to switch tools. Thoughtfully, I examine the collection, kneading my bottom lip in concentration. Not the heavy whips, her skin is too fine for that, her responses too genuine to need that heavy of stimulation. Ah, perfect.

 

The signal whip requires less space to work with and is more sound than pain. But that fuzzy tip, traveling at speeds above blur, licks Sara's fine skin and she cries out delightfully. Pulling at the chain, she stands on the barest tips of her toes for a moment, shaking off the sting as I admire the rising duskiness of the welted bruise I have left. Few of these will be necessary to get her at the edges of the raw need in her strong soul.

 

Sometimes, I feel the need to speak to those that succumb to me. In Sara, the inherent quiet of her is poignant and I respond to that. Our only sound is the wind of our breath, the soft grunts in my own throat as I concentrate, the hiss and whine of Sara's pain and pleasure. I have the rhythm now, the beat of her need that brings me into line with her.

 

The sharp cry actually startles me and the lash falters to slither impotently across Sara's reddened skin. Trembling and vulnerable, she has broken beneath the pain I have so carefully doled out. Now, the script changes and I must reward her for her trust.

 

"Good girl," my voice purrs softly as I step into her shaking body to stroke her skin, press our hot flesh closely together. With my still-gloved hands, I trace her slender lines, stroke her pleasure higher, wanting now the reward of cumulating her need.

 

++ Sara ++

 

She is magnificent.

 

Intuitive with the unknown of my needs, mean and sweet with my vulnerable body. Quickly now, I climb that staggered mountain of pleasure, buffeted by the blows of the sharp, biting whiptail at my back. Such a singular pain blazing like electricity through muscle, skin and nerves. But, this singular pain burns different than accidental pain, for I am attuned to the whip and it leaves me dripping.

 

It takes eight strokes to make me cry out, not merely from the pain, but from the overload of my nerves as they soak in the precise beating. Then, Lady Heather completes the cycle of sensation, her hands on me, sliding over my sweaty skin, teasing at my erogenous zones, making me cry out louder, higher, harder.

 

In the end, I hang limp from the shackles on my wrists, the blindfold drenched in sweat and tears, my body spent.

 

"Legs under you, Basker," Lady Heather instructs, voice implacable but kind, and taps my knees with the riding crop that must have not strayed far from her hands. With a hiss of a small electric motor, the pressure slackens and I must find the energy to keep my body upright. Somehow, I manage and my new Mistress purrs at me once more. "Good girl."

 

"Thank you, Mistress," I have to acknowledge her and the touch of her magnificent hands on my skin.

 

"Step forward."

 

With the support of her hands at my hip and elbow, I do as instructed, collapsing onto the soft surface of what must be the bed I saw when I entered, what feels like a lifetime ago. The welts burn as the silky sheets rub at them, reminding me of the beating. As though I need it!

 

Part of me has despaired ever meeting the eye of this woman who has moved me so, but today I am lucky. The blindfold falls away and I can at last smile into the feline gaze of Lady Heather.

 

"Pleased to meet you, Mistress."

 

"Pleased to meet you too, Sara."

 

And we are no longer strangers.


End file.
